


Stand (You’re Gonna Run Again)

by windsthatwhisper



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Amputee!Jonny, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military, Panic Attacks, Permanent Injury, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, the story isn’t as dark as it seems i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-31 10:16:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18589207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsthatwhisper/pseuds/windsthatwhisper
Summary: The first time Patrick sees Jonathan again after fourteen months, he's lying in a hospital bed in the ICU.“It came off in the explosion.” Patrick whispers, voice shaky.Jonny stares at his left leg, eyes filled with angry tears. His thigh is littered in cuts and bruises, but he only gets about halfway down before there's nothing. He's only got one-fourth of his thigh. His leg is gone.





	Stand (You’re Gonna Run Again)

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh I’ve been working on this for forever and it’s finally finished! 
> 
> My brother was in the army for a bit and was involved in a tank wreck. He came out okay, but a guy in the other tank snapped both of his legs, and one almost had to be amputated, and thus this idea sparked, but has been sitting in my drafts for almost a year before I actually started writing.
> 
> Title from the song ‘Stand’ by Lenny Kravitz.

When Patrick married Jonathan back in 2015, he was fully aware he was becoming a military husband. He knew he’d be moving on base, knew that every time Jonny left to do his duties, something could happen, and Patrick may never see him again.

It was worth it, though, to be his husband.

When Jonny was deployed to Afghanistan, Patrick was heartbroken. He took solace in the other military spouses that had husbands and wives deployed. He worked as an assistant at the on-base elementary school, joined Dayna's chore group rotations, and helped the cooks make dinner for everyone on the base.

He was very, very lonely.

It took fourteen months for them to come back. Patrick heard the news for the details. It wasn't until he caught Brinsky in the hallway, found him crying. 

“What's wrong?” He'd asked him, “Aren't you happy? They're back, Alex! They're okay.” 

“Not all of them.” He cried, then told him about a landmine that had gone off in the middle of a city they were visiting. Seven were injured, three were dead. No one knew who yet.

It was an agonizing two days before Bowman and Colliton gathered everyone in the mess hall to read the list of the deceased, and those who were injured.

Caggiula, Murphy, Ward, dead. 

Crawford, Gustafsson, Hayden, Saad, Seabrook, Strome, and platoon captain Jonathan Toews, severely injured.

The first time Patrick sees Jonathan again after fourteen months, he's lying in a hospital bed in the ICU.

There's a breathing tube down his throat, head tilted up a little where he lies unconscious. He's bruised everywhere, arms covered in nasty black and yellow spots. He's got a few gauze patches on his arms as well, some stained with drying blood. 

“You must be Patrick,” a voice says from behind him, and he turns to find a doctor standing before him, “I'm Dr. Terry. I'm taking care of your husband.”

“Hi,” responds Pat, weakly, “Is he okay?”

“He's stable,” Dr. Terry assures him, “He's been out of surgery for about five hours. He took a lot of cranial damage; it's a miracle that he never broke his skull. If he was any closer, he probably would have.” 

Patrick covers his mouth, trying not to cry as he looks at his lifeless husband.

“He's got a broken rib. He's still out from the anesthetic, but he should wake up soon. I'm most concerned about his concussion — making sure that bleeding doesn't start on the brain — and infection in his left leg.”

Pat sniffles, wiped his nose on his shirt sleeve, “Left leg? Why just his left leg?”

Dr. Terry furrows his eyebrows, as if Patrick should have known. Then he seems to realize that _no,_ Patrick doesn't know.

“Mr. Toews, there were some- complications.”

“Complications?” Patrick asks, “What kind of complications?”

——— 

Jonny wakes up at four in the morning, ten hours after his surgery.

Patrick's half asleep in the chair when Jonny shifts, squeezes Patrick's hand in his sleep.

Patrick's awake in a blink. He watches Jonny open his eyes, bring his hand up to shield his eyes from the bright lights. 

“Jonny? Baby?”

Jonathan groans and moves around in the bed, before finally dropping his hand and turning to Patrick. His eyes go wide, and Pat can see he's in pain, definitely his rib, probably his head, but before Patrick can run to turn off the lights, Jonny's flailing for him and choking on the breathing tube. 

“Hey, hey, calm down,” Patrick says, chest tight in worry, “You're alright. It’s okay.”

Jonny coughs and chokes again, but by the time a nurse comes in, Jonny's already passed out again.

——— 

Patrick sleeps restlessly after that, the look of pure fear in Jonny’s eyes burned into his brain. 

———

They take out the breathing tube the next morning while Jonny’s still out. The next time he wakes, he stays awake.

“What happened?” He croaks, voice rough and pained. Patrick helps him drink some water — with the doctor's permission, through a straw — and lets Jonny squeeze his hand. 

“That's what we wanted to ask you.” Dr. Terry tells him while a nurse checks his vitals. “What do you remember?”

Jonny leans his head against his pillows and closes his eyes. “We were set up in this town.” His voice is raspy and weak, and it breaks Pat’s heart to hear him. “We were delivering supplies...to the civilians. There was this...little flag, in the middle of the town. A marker. Ward didn't see it.”

Jonny swallows, and it echoes throughout the room, “I was-wasn't close enough. Stromer was next to me. I grabbed him. Then there was this explosion. I couldn't- couldn't see, I couldn't hear.” 

Jonny’s breathing picks up, wincing on every inhale, and he refused to say anything more.

Patrick runs his hands through Jonny's hair, hoping to give him something to focus on. When he was calm enough, he glances to Colliton, who'd been standing by the door since Dr. Terry came in.

“How many are dead?”

“All together? 73.”

“On the team?”

Colliton sighs. “Three.”

“Who?” 

“Toews-”

_“Who?”_

Colliton bit his lip. He looks to the doctor in silent question, and Dr. Terry nods the okay. “Ward, Murphy, and Caggiula.”

Jonny goes paler than he already was. “Oh God.”

“Captain Toews,” Dr. Terry says, “I think you should relax and let us to our jobs. Don't worry too much about-”

“Strome.” Jonny gasps, ignoring Dr. Terry, “Where is he? Is he okay? I c-” He inhales hard, unable to steady his breathing. “I covered him- during the explosion.” 

“Private Strome is fine.” Colliton assures him. “Better shape than you. Concussion and a broken arm, but nothing too bad.”

Jonny relaxes a little, curling into Patrick's hands. “Good. Brin- Brinks’ll kill me if I let him get hurt.”

“He's okay, Jonny,” Patrick whispers, pressing his nose to his husband's temple, “Now you focus on getting better.” 

“I'm going to look for any nerve damage I might have missed in surgery.” Dr. Terry tells them. “Jonathan, can you move all of your fingers on your right hand?”

Jonathan lifts his arm, rolls his hand around, and wiggles his fingers and thumb.

“Good, now the left?” 

He's able to move is arm and wrist and all five fingers. But it's sore, aches to move, and says so.

Dr. Terry frowns, but nods like he expected that. “Your left side took more of the damage. It was facing the landmine when it went off. Right leg, bend it and wiggle your toes.”

Dr. Terry pulls the blanket to Jonny's ankle. Jonny bends his leg at his knee, moves it around, and wiggles his toes. Automatically, he goes to do the same to the left, and then freezes.

His eyes go wide, but he tries to pretend he's calm when he says, “I can't feel my left leg.”

Patrick furrows his eyebrows, because how could Jon have not noticed? But he must not have looked down, mustn't have paid any attention to the fact that there was a lump in the blankets, right where Jonny's thigh was, then flattened out. 

But then he does.

Panic overwhelms his features. He reaches down to where his leg is- where it’s _supposed_ to be, and holds it. 

In a flash, Jonny snaps the blankets off his body.

“It came off in the explosion.” Patrick whispers, voice shaky.

Jonny stares at his left leg, eyes filled with angry tears. His thigh is littered in cuts and bruises, but he only gets about halfway down before there's nothing. He's only got one-fourth of his thigh. His leg is gone.

“Your left leg took a lot of damage in the explosion,” Dr. Terry explains as gently as he can, “It was gone when you arrived. We took you into surgery to stop the bleeding.”

Jonny's face is red, angry and embarrassed and scared. His jaw his clenched tight, but all he says is, “Oh.”

Dr. Terry pats his right leg. “We'll be back tomorrow. Push that red button on the bed controls if you need someone.” With that, he, the nurse, and Colliton were gone.

Patrick watches Jonny stare at his leg, unwavering. Eventually, Patrick takes the blanket and covers him up to his hips. “Jonny?”

“Please don't.” He says, turns, faces Patrick on his side. “Just stay with me.”

Patrick brushes a hand through the brunet hair, short from being cut down, “I'm not goin’ anywhere.” 

——— 

They have to drain at the surgery site the next day.

Jonny's eyes go wide in fear. He looks over at Patrick, who hurries to collect his husband in his arms and sit on the edge of the bed. 

They get Jonny to swing his legs over the edge of the bed, then numb up the area. Jonny hides his face in Patrick's shoulder while they do it, clutching onto him tightly. It doesn't hurt, but it's horrifying, and honestly- a little embarrassing.

Dr. Terry waits until two in the afternoon to test for any hearing loss. They run through a series of tests, starting with what he can hear and what he can't, then with sensitivity. 

It was a miracle that Jonny’s hearing isn't severely damaged, is Dr. Terry's analysis.

“It's not as bad as I thought it would be- by a long shot.” he tells them after Jonny's final hearing check, “There is some; enough that I'm going to order a hearing aid to have on you in case you need it.” 

Jonny clenches his jaw. Patrick knows that look, but he keeps quiet.

“You should be fine most of the time,” Dr. Terry assures them, “However, some days could be worse than others.”

Patrick's been taking notes, setting reminders and timers on his phone.

“We're going to give you some time to recover from your concussion and your fractured rib before we start physical therapy,” Dr. Terry tells them one day, when Jonny's able to eat without throwing up, “We estimate about a month for long enough recovery. But it'll take about three months to get over the concussion completely.” 

“Physical therapy?” Jonny asks, “What therapy? I can't walk on what's left of my leg.”

“You can with a prosthetic.” 

Jonny blinks at him in surprise. “A prosthetic?” 

Dr. Terry nods, humming his reply. “Mhm. The army is paying all the costs of your prosthetic from now until the day you die, even if you decide you'd like to be discharged.”

“Wait,” Patrick says “you're saying he can stay in the military? Even with a prosthetic leg?”

“If he passes physical therapy, then yes.”

“Okay, slow down.” Jonny interrupts them, holding out his hands for effect. “I'm still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I'm getting a _fake leg._ Can Pat and I have some time alone?”

“Sure, Jon,” Dr. Terry smiles at him reassuringly, “Make sure you get some food in you. You haven't eaten at all today.”

“I'll make sure of it, Doc.” Patrick says, then turns his attention to his husband. When they're alone, Patrick takes one of his hands. “You're shaking.” 

“My leg got blown off and now I'm getting a prosthetic,” Jonny snaps, “Sorry if I'm freaking out a little.”

“Hey, I never said you weren't allowed to,” Patrick frowns, “I'm just pointing it out.”

“Yeah, well, you don't need to. I already know I'm a cripple.”

 _“Stop that.”_ Pat snaps. “Just because you lost a leg doesn't mean you're any less of a man.”

Jonny doesn't meet his eyes. “I never said that.”

Patrick snorts, “I've known you for seven years, been married for three. I know you, Taze. I've learned to read your stupid facial expressions. You've only got, like, three.”

Jonny huffs indignantly, but Pat keeps going. “Everything is going to be fine. I'm gonna be right by your side, yeah? You're gonna get that prosthetic, ace physical therapy — because Jonathan Toews doesn't fail at anything —”

Jonny snorts so hard it hurts his throat.

“— and go on with your life. Because having a fake leg? It's not a big deal. If anything, it shows how brave you are, because you lost a leg protecting the country, and everyone in it. That is the ultimate sacrifice.” 

“Losing your life is the ultimate sacrifice.” Jonny corrects.

But Patrick shushes him. “Maybe to some. And being killed in the line of duty is a horrible thing to happen, and I sympathize for everyone that's been lost. But it's also an ultimate sacrifice to lose a _piece of your body._ Any injury is a sacrifice. The smallest one can change a person’s entire life. And this? This is a major injury. So yes, Jonny, this is an ultimate sacrifice.” 

Jonny refuses to look at him, but his eyes were glossed over with tears. They weren't angry like before. They were sad, showed a vulnerability that Jonny rarely let anyone see.

Patrick slips into the bed, pulled Jonny close. They lay together for a while, until Jonny can breathe without trembling, until Patrick can close his eyes without crying.

———

They move Jonny out of ICU and keep him in the hospital for two more weeks. They watch for infection, any signs of heart failure or sepsis.

One day, a physical therapist comes in.

“Hi guys,” she greets them, red hair in a high ponytail that swishes as she walks, “I'm Maeve. I'll be your physical therapist while you're admitted here.”

Patrick shakes her hand. Jonny keeps his clenched in the bedsheets.

“Basically, what we'll do is get some range of motion back into your leg — some simple maneuvers that you won't have to leave the bed for. Over the course of the next few days, you'll be able to sit and stand from a chair safely, as well as making sure you know how to correctly put on the prosthetic.”

Patrick nods. She slips on a pair of latex gloves and puts her hands lightly over the blankets. “May I?”

Jonny looks at Patrick, a little nervous, then nods at her. Carefully, she pulls the covers down to the foot of the bed, and Jonny is once again met with the sight of what's left of his mauled leg. 

“All I'm going to do today is some ROM exercises. I'll just be moving it around and flexing it, okay?”

Jonny nods again, and she takes his stub of a leg in her hands. She pushes it upwards, towards his body, bends it straight up, then sets it back down. “Tell me if there's any pain. There might be a bit of discomfort, but that's normal in the result stages after surgery.”

Jonny doesn't nod again, simply stares at her as she bends it to the left, then back, then to the right. He's got a hand clamped tight on Pat's, watching.

Maeve rolls his stub in circular motions. Jonny smiles a little, reminded of when he played hockey during high school, remembers going to a game in America and seeing a little blond kid zipping around on the ice. 

After about fifteen minutes, Maeve stops and sets his stub back down on the bed. “That's all I'm going to do today. I'll be back tomorrow afternoon.”

They say their goodbyes, and when she's gone, Jonny's free to yank the blankets over his body and keep it hidden. 

Patrick watches him, worried, but keeps quiet.

That night, Patrick's parents fly in once he calls them, and Jonny's family comes down the next day. They have to get clearance, and they're only allowed to visit Jonny's room, but they're there in a heartbeat. 

Jonny becomes a lot more relaxed with his mother here. Patrick's relieved, to say the least. But they're only able to stay the two weeks that Jonny's in the hospital before they have to go back.

They leave the day before Jonny gets discharged from gets hospital. It's hard for Jonny to say goodbye when he's so scared, and Patrick cuddles him extra close that night. 

Jonny wakes up antsy, ready to go home. Patrick's half asleep, but he helps Jonny get his shorts on, careful of the end of the stump, which is still a little sensitive.

“Alright, Jonathan,” Dr. Terry greets them, “Here's what's going to happen: I'm sending you home for a month to recover from your concussion. I want you on as much bed rest as possible. Patrick _must_ assist you if you have to get up. You've had only a touch of physical therapy. You're not ready.”

“Yes sir.” Jonny says, and doesn't seem happy about it. 

“I'm sending you with a wheelchair.” Dr. Terry's looking at Patrick now. “Once he's started physical therapy, then we can send in some crutches or a cane. But for now, a wheelchair is going to be the easiest for him to move around with. Be by his side as often as possible.”

“Okay, no problem.” Patrick nods. He turns to Jonny. “Ready to go home?”

“More than ready.” Jonny breathes. 

He reaches his arms up. Patrick slips an arm under Jonny's left one, anchoring his feet. “Ready? One, two, three.”

Jonny pushes up on his good leg and stumbles. Patrick's free hand shoots out to grab the side of Jonny's ribs, keeping him upright. It's only two steps to the wheelchair, but it feels like an eternity before Jonny's able to collapse into it.

Patrick crouches down next to the wheelchair. “Okay?”

Jonny nods, shaky, obviously upset with himself. Patrick curls a hand around Jonny's jaw, turning his head to kiss him softly. “I love you.”

Jonny sighs against his lips. “I love you too.”

———

Brinksy and Stromer and waiting for them when they leave the hospital.

“Cap!” Stromer shouts, hurrying over as quick as he can with his injuries. “Thank fuck you're okay.”

Jonny smiles weakly at him, “Same to you, man.”

There's a blanket over Jonny's lap and his legs- _leg._ He doesn't know if anyone else knows, and he clenches the blanket in his fists subconsciously.

They gave him a simpler prosthetic than what he'll have. His official prosthetic has to be shipped, and it's set to come in around the time Jonny starts physical therapy. For now, all he has is a simple cup and plastic foot, attached together by a pole. Jonny doesn't want to wear it. 

“You guys know to call us if you need anything.” Brinksy tells them, closing his hand around his fiancé's, “Seriously.”

“Thanks, Alex.” Patrick smiles at him. They help Jonny to the car, but walk off before Jonny gets out of the wheelchair.

“Do they know?”

Patrick bites his lip. “Most of your platoon does,” he says cautiously, “Most of them were, you know, there.”

Jonny squeezes his eyes shut. “What happened after the explosion?”

Patrick says nothing for a bit, before patting Jonny's shoulder. “C'mon. Let's get you in the car first.”

Patrick tosses the blanket onto the floor of the car, then wraps his arm underneath Jonny's. Together, they stumble into the front seat without any injury.

“It'll take some practice.” Pat says with a chuckle, draping the blanket over Jonny's lower body.

“Patrick,” Jonny stops him, grabbing his wrists, “What happened after the explosion?” 

His husband falls a little, tries to figure out how to explain. “You were pretty out of it. Stromer said you were barely conscious. He tried to get someone's attention. He knew- he knew something was wrong. He saw the blood. He saw the-” he pauses, not sure if he should finish, but Jonny urges him with a look an insistent push of his hands. “He saw the bone.” 

Jonny clenches Pat's hand, trying to block out the sounds that kept roaring back. 

“They got you on a stretcher, carried you to the base. Dr. Terry -- you remember he was stationed with you? Okay good -- they did surgery there. Flew you here when you were stable enough.”

“So they all saw?” Jonny whispers, throat tight with emotion.

“Most of them, yeah.”

Jonny turns away, “I want to go home.”

“Okay, baby, okay.” Patrick folds up the wheelchair and tosses it in between the seats. “Let's go home.”

———

Patrick pushes Jonny through the front door, and immediately, Jonny feels more relaxed.

He's safe now, he tells himself. There's no danger.

It's dinner time, but Jonny isn't hungry. All he wants to do is go to his bed and sleep. Patrick's concerned, but he understands.

“I've got it.” He says when Patrick tries to help him up again. 

Patrick looks worried, and his arms are out in case he needs to lunge. Jonny pushes himself onto his leg. He wobbles a little, unused to the change in balance. He throws an arm out to lean against the mattress, turns himself, and sinks onto the edge. 

“See?” He exhales. “I'm fine.”

“You're white as a fucking sheet, Jon. Lay down.” Patrick remarks, but it's soft, worried, and Jonny tugs him down next to him.

“Stay with me.” He breathes, closing his eyes. Patrick doesn't move until Jonny falls asleep. When he does, Patrick slips out of the bed and pads down to the kitchen.

He's not sure what Jonny will want when he wakes, so he sticks to a smoothie: kale and green apple, a splash of water. He wonders if Jonny will want pancakes. Jonny loves pancakes, especially since Pat found a gluten-free, dairy-free recipe back when they first started dating.

He gets to work, trying to keep as quiet as possible so Jonny can sleep. He adds a bit of vanilla flavoring, because Jonny loves vanilla, and decides that chocolate chips and sprinkles must be added to his concoction.

He's just finished putting the last of the batch on a plate, when he hears a thud from down the hall, and then a scream.

Patrick takes off down the hall, skidding into the bedroom. Jonny's twitching in the bed, breathing fast and unsteady, and still fast asleep.

“Jon? Babe!” Patrick grabs Jonny's flailing hands, pinning them to the bed. “Wake up. Jonny, baby, wake up!”

He shoves Jonny around a little, enough that Jonny wakes with a start, gasping so hard that he chokes on his tongue.

“Hey, it's me, I'm right here.” Patrick says, trying to calm him down. “You're fine.”

Jonny's breathing is labored, eyes blown wide. He's sputtering, trying to form a sentence, but can barely make a word.

Dr. Terry said this would happen. Night terrors; maybe even sleep paralysis. He was worried about PTSD. Patrick probably needs to call a therapist now.

“P-P-Pat,” Jonny chokes out, coughing, “I… m-” He whimpers, unable to talk. 

Patrick scrambles to get next to him, hold him as Jonny burrows his face into his neck. They sit like that for a while, Patrick petting Jonny's hair and rubbing up and down his arm.

When Jonny's calmer, Patrick pulls back just enough to look Jonny in the eyes. “Are you hungry?”

Jonny shrugs, exhausted.

“I made you a smoothie, and pancakes. Whenever you want them. I can always put them in the fridge for tomorrow if you don't want any right now.”

“I'm sorry.” Jonny whispers, and Patrick has a feeling that it won't be the last time he says it when he doesn't need to.

———

The funeral for Murphy, Ward, and Caggiula was the next day. Their families were kind enough to postpone the burial until Jonathan could attend, but the viewing had been a few days after the bodies had been flown into the States, before they could start breaking down. 

Murphy was the only one who had been able to have an open casket. Ward and Caggiula’s faces were too burned and torn for the families to handle, so their viewings had been closed-casket.

Jonny was determined to go.

“Are you sure?” Patrick asks for the fourth time that day as he buttons up his dress shirt.

 _“Yes.”_ Jonny says, exasperated. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m an amputee, but I’m not disabled.”

Patrick wants to argue with that statement, but he knows it’ll make things worse. He keeps his mouth shut and helps Jonny pull on his pants. Jonny goes to button them, but his fingers are shaking and too clammy to grab onto the button long enough.

Jonny exhales, tight and watery, and Patrick hurriedly slips the button through the hole and pulls up the zipper.

Patrick also has to help him tuck in his shirt, because he has to stand to do it well and he’s trembling as he leans against the wall. Patrick tucks it inside, slides on his suit jacket, and the incident is over.

Patrick finishes getting dressed, before wheeling Jonny out of the house and to the car.

“I’m not using the wheelchair.” He says as he buckled himself. Patrick stops. 

“What?”

“It’s hard to move around in-” he trips over the word, “-in cemeteries with a wheelchair. I’m going to use the cane.”

Jonny doesn’t have his official prosthetic yet, instead has something simple but able to use. He can barely walk at the moment. 

“Jon…” Patrick frowns, worriedly, “I’m not sure that’s the safest-”

“I can do it,” Jonny snaps, “Just put the damn thing in the back and let’s go. I just want to get this over with.”

Patrick feels like he should say no, put his foot down because Patrick is in the position to make decisions like this for Jonny, and Jonny _isn’t,_ but he can’t upset his husband more than he already is. So he puts the wheelchair in the trunk and drives them to the funeral. 

Jonny insists on walking up on his own, but Patrick _does_ put his foot down this time and drape Jonny’s arms around his neck for balance. He’s mad for all of seven seconds, before he almost trips on a rock. From then on, he holds onto Patrick’s shoulder tight and lets him wrap his own arm around his waist for more support. 

The families are there to greet him, shaking his hands and crying into their tissues. Patrick can tell from Jon’s body language that he’s angry with himself. He blames himself for all of this, and Patrick has no idea how to fix it.

They line up in front of the holes for the graves. Trumpets play as soldiers march to the graves, carrying the three caskets.

Jonathan loses track of what was going on after that. He can’t stop thinking about how it could be him in that casket, how Patrick could be the one on his knees as they bury his husband, fourteen months since the day they last saw one another and never be able to see each other again. 

He leans closer to Patrick, pressing against his side. He’s putting more weight on the wimpy prosthetic and his cane, but he can’t make himself break contact with Patrick.

Never once did it occur to him that he could have died that day — not until now.

The gun salute is what gets him. He startles at the shots, nearly losing his footing from underneath him, but Patrick has an arm firmly wrapped around his waist and is able to keep him up without causing a scene.

For one brief, terrifying moment, Jonny thinks he’s back on the battlefield.

“You’re okay,” Patrick whispers, “C’mon, I think it’s time to go.”

Jonny can’t look away as they lower Murphy’s casket into the grave. Murphy’s grave. Murphy’s _dead._ Jonny doesn’t know what to do. 

Patrick carefully pulls him along, apologizing as they squeeze their way past people to the back rows, then down the path back to the car.

“Jonny!” Someone calls, a whisper of a yell, “Peeks!” 

Sharpy’s in front of them before Patrick can turn around, Abby at his side, dressed in her military uniform, blonde hair pulled in a tight bun. “Is everything okay?”

Jonny can’t breathe.

“I need to get him back to the car,” Patrick tells them, but it’s muffled a little, like Jonny’s ears are clogged up some. He digs his finger into one of them, twisting, trying to get them back to normal. It doesn’t work, and he tries harder next time, more desperate.

His arm is ripped away, and he can faintly make out someone saying, “You’ll bust your eardrums,” but it’s even more muffled than before.

Abby’s arms are around his free side, and Sharpy runs down to the car while she and Patrick carry him away from the funeral. 

Back there, he knows that two wives are going to be getting folded American flags, and it makes Jon sick to think that Patrick could have been a spouse that gets the flag covering his dead husband’s casket.

They get him to the car and in his seat, and Jonny vomits hard through the open door. 

_“Call...eed -nythin…”_

Jonny squeezes his eyes shut and puts his head back against the seat. He feels a tissue brush over his lips and wipe the vomit off them. The instincts he’s built up make him want to punch whoever’s in his space, but he has no strength, so all he’s able to do is jolt and twist his head away. 

“Shh, it’s me,” he hears Patrick say, a little clearer than before, “It’s just me, baby.”

Jonny relaxes, inch by inch, so Patrick hurries to buckle him up and run to the driver’s side of the car.

“We shouldn’t have come.” He hears Patrick mumble under his breath. It makes Jonny feel guiltier than he already does. 

Patrick decides he’s tired of the fucking around Jonny’s been doing, and carries Jonny inside their house bridal style before he can try to walk again. Jonny doesn’t fight.

Patrick sets him down on the bed, then unbuttons his shirt and tosses it away. He does the same with Jonny’s shoes and socks and pants, until he’s only left in his underwear. Jonny’s too tired to speak, or move, or even make a noise. Patrick leaves him to make lunch. 

Jonny doesn’t get out of bed for the rest of the day. 

———

Their life becomes a routine: Patrick gets up, makes breakfast, does his daily workout, spends the day with Jonny in bed, makes them dinner, repeat. 

It's like that until Jonny begins physical therapy.

He's shaking on the drive to the hospital, blanket over his lap, hands fisted in the fabric. He's getting his official prosthetic today.

“Are you gonna take your blanket with you?” Patrick asks, turning into the rehab center.

Jonny nods wordlessly, knows Patrick can see through his peripherals, and tightens his grip. It's an old Blackhawks blanket. His mother sent it to them as a wedding present, and it's been tucked away in the closet for years so it didn't get damaged.

But once Jonny's leg came off, it became his lifeline. He refuses to leave the house without it.

Patrick helps him into the wheelchair, and he pushes Jonny into the building. Usually, Jonny likes to drive the wheelchair himself, because he wants to show he's still capable to doing simple tasks. But his hands haven't moved from the blanket, and Patrick knows they won't until he starts physical therapy.

The desk lady greets them as they enter. “Good morning, gentlemen! How can I help you today?” 

“Appointment under Toews? That's T-O-E-W-S.” Patrick tells her. “For physical therapy with Amanda Kessel?”

“I see you right here.” The lady says with a smile that Jonny doesn't trust, “Jonathan?” 

“That's me.” Says Jonny with the voice of the dead.

“Take a seat in those chairs over there. She'll be less than five minutes.”

“Thank you!” Patrick hollers over his shoulder and pushes Jonny over to an end seat. He pulls Jonny in front of him, a silent but visual reminder that he's there for him.

“I don't like the way she looked at me.”

Patrick quirks an eyebrow. “Who? The desk lady?”

Jonny nods. “She- I don't know. She rubs me the wrong way, I guess.” 

“Why? She didn't seem threatening.”

“Anyone can be threatening, especially the ones who look like they're not.” 

Patrick frowns at the creases of concern on Jonny's forehead. He leans forward and takes his hand, rubbing circles over top with his thumb. “They're all here to help you, babe.”

Jonny doesn't respond. He sits there in silence, occasionally shifting the blanket around. He stares at the threads. 

Eventually, he whispers, “I don't like it here.” 

Patrick sighs, “Jonny-”

“Jonathan Toews?”

Jonny clears his throat, and still doesn't fight when Patrick takes the handles of his wheelchair and pushes him into the back area down the hall. 

Amanda Kessel is a pretty blonde trainer with a kind smile and bullshits absolutely nothing. She shakes their hands as she leads them into the training room. “Hi guys! It's very nice to meet you. I'm gonna help you learn to use your prosthetic.”

The first thing they do is attach the prosthetic. Patrick has to coax the blanket off Jonny's lap, and he clenches it in his hands protectively while Amanda is working on his leg. 

It's a transfemoral prosthetic, one of the best that the military covered. They had it specially made and flown in from one of the best prosthetic makers in the United States. The socket was smaller than in the pictures they looked at, only because Jonny only had a little less than half his thigh. They'd taken measurements the day before Jonny left the hospital so that they could get his socket customized and fitted to his comfort. 

There's a rotator where his knee would be to provide the bend as he walks, to prevent an obvious, if not at all, limp. The plastic foot is nicer looking, has individual toes instead of just being a slab of plastic with small indentations.

“We're going to start simple and get you out of that chair.” Amanda says. “I want you to put your weight on both legs, as if you had a normal leg and not a prosthetic. Grab onto us if you need help.” 

Jonny wants to say that he won't need help, that he's more than capable of doing things on his own, but when he stands and nearly slips under his feet, he's suddenly very glad that he kept his mouth shut.

Patrick's got his arms tight around Jonny's middle, careful of his ribs. Amanda's got his left arm that had flailed outwards in the panic.

Amanda squeezes his arm. “There you go. We're going to straighten you up now. Keep holding onto us.” Slowly, she and Patrick help straighten Jonny's spine so he's standing up. He winces, leaning towards Patrick on his right leg.

“It might be uncomfortable for a little while, while you get used to your prosthetic.” Amanda tells him, “But with enough physical therapy, you'll be back to normal in no time.” 

Jonny nods, not meeting her eyes. 

“I want you to sit back down. Use us for balance if you need it.”

Jonny's trembling as he bends, unsteady on his prosthetic. He grips Pat's arm and Amanda's shirt, lowers himself into his wheelchair. 

“That was great, Jonathan!” Amanda cheers. Patrick feels a swell of excitement blossom behind his ribs. Jonny's getting better.

Amanda has him stand up again. This time, he puts his weight on his right leg, and when he's standing, he shifts some of the weight onto the prosthetic. 

“Okay?” Amanda asks.

Jonny takes a moment to evaluate his limbs, any achiness he feels, and says, “Yeah.”

“I'm going to let go of your arm, okay?” When he nods, she releases him and goes to stand about a foot in front of him. “With Patrick's help, I want you to walk forward, one step with your right leg and one with your prosthetic.” 

Fear blinks through his eyes, but it's gone in a second, replaced by the emotionless face he was wearing before. His hand tightens on Patrick, and Pat moves so that he has an arm wrapped under both Jonny's armpits, holding him up.

Jonny takes the first step with his right leg. It's tense, muscles tight, and even with his better leg, he seems to be struggling to move it. But he does, and he takes a normal step.

Hesitant and slow, Jonny forces what's left of the muscle in his left thigh to move. It jolts a little, not having been used much since the explosion, but he steadies himself. 

Jonny glares at his leg and pushes harder, lifting the plastic foot off the ground. The rotator at the knee bends, and he kind of throws his thigh forward and stomps on the ground.

Jonny exhales harshly. He did it. He took a step.

Patrick's eyes water at the awe in Jonny's face. Amanda cheers, “You did amazing!”

Jonny turns his head to Patrick, who leans in and kisses him excitedly. 

“Do you think you can take another step with the prosthetic?” Amanda asks, but Jonny bites his lip nervously.

“I- I don't know. It took a lot to do it.” Jonny's eyes swing to the ground. “There's not much of my real leg to work with. I can't control it very easily.”

Amanda frowns at the statement but nods her understanding. “With more practice, walking will be a lot easier. Why don't we get you back in the wheelchair and we can take you to the gym area? You can try some workouts.”

Jonny nods. He likes working out. He can do that. 

They get Jonny back in the wheelchair, and Amanda insists that Jonny wheels himself, since Patrick's been pushing him most of the time.

When they get to the gym area and Jonny's busy trying to figure out what he wants to try, she falls back to talk to Patrick quietly.

“I don't want to alarm you,” she says, “but what Jonathan said worries me a little.”

Patrick can feel his heart plummet. “What do you mean?”

“Jonathan's leg took some serious damage. As a result, more of it had to be amputated than normal. Most amputees regain feeling, which is why they're able to use the prosthetics. But sometimes, nerve damage can be so severe that they never regain total control.”

Patrick worries at his bottom lip, “So what does that mean?”

Amanda shrugs. “It's always hard the first few times to walk with a fake leg, especially when you can't feel it. But Jonathan said he can't really control it. I'm worried about him having such critical nerve damage that having a prosthetic might end up being useless.”

Patrick runs a hand over his mouth, across his jaw. “Dr. Terry said that Jonny was able to feel it, at least some. That's why he could take that step today.” 

“Yes, and that's a good sign. But just know that it might get worse. And the way he had difficulty moving his right leg? That's very concerning. That means there's nerve damage there, too.” She squeezes Patrick's arm. “I hate to even think about it, but if this gets worse, Jonathan may never walk again.”

——— 

“So what was that about?” Jonny asks while Patrick helps him into the car after the therapy session. 

Patrick's too busy fighting with the seatbelts to pay much attention. “What was what about?” 

“You and Amanda. You guys were talking while I was looking at the gym.”

Patrick freezes, but catches his panic and moves to rearrange the blanket over Jonny's lap before his husband notices. “Oh. We were just talking about future therapy stuff. She was giving me tips on helping you around the house.” 

“Oh, okay.” Says Jonny, who can't keep the smile off his face. 

Patrick slides into the passenger's seat and flicks on the heat. “What's got you so happy?”

Jonny's beaming at him. “I walked today, Pat. With both of my legs. Uh, sort of. You know, but, I did it. I walked.”

Since Jonny came back from overseas, Patrick can't remember seeing him this happy. He's been so sad.

Pat knows that half of it is because Jonny feels like he's failed. He always wants to be independent, do things on his own and prove he can protect everyone, the brute. Having his leg gone devastated him. For the first time in his life, he felt helpless.

But now, Jonny walked, without crutches or Patrick as his second (and third) leg. He did it on his own. He's excited. He's proud.

Patrick can't tell him about Amanda's conversation. It'll break him even more than he already is.

“I know, babe,” he says instead, grinning wide and putting all his excitement into it, “I'm so proud of you! You'll be back to normal in no time.”

Jonny nods, pleased with his answer, and goes about fiddling with the radio. Patrick can't look at him as he drives, and focuses on getting them home without blurting Amanda's warning.

Jonny takes a nap when they get home. Patrick takes the opportunity to call up one of the psychiatrists the army had suggested. Even if Jonny regains feeling to his legs, he still more than likely has PTSD, and it needs to be treated. 

Patrick's been meaning to call. But now, it seems like Jonny might need it more than ever. 

Days pass, and Jonny starts coming out of the bedroom. He eats with Patrick at the kitchen table, does some windowsill gardening, and even helps with the chores.

But, he still refuses to go outside unless it's for physical therapy. He doesn't want people to see him like this. 

It's no secret that Jonny's self conscious about his leg, but Patrick wasn't aware of how much until the next Saturday morning.

Patrick's curled up in Jonny's arms while the sunlight is still fresh, streaming in between the curtains and onto the middle of the bed.

Patrick stirs and blinks his eyes open, feels Jonny's arms tight around him. He sighs happily. He'll never get tired of having Jonny's arms around him.

He wiggles around until he's facing his husband, who peels his eyes open at the movements. He smiles down at Patrick, sleepy, and kisses him good morning. 

Patrick will also never get tired of kissing Jonny. His lips are soft and pliant beneath his, but still take control, kissing with every ounce of himself until there's nothing left to give. Then he pulls away, and starts again. 

Patrick sighs into the kisses, tossing an arm around Jonny's shoulders. He pulls Jonny closer, cups a hand around Jonny's cheek as Jonny slides his hands down to grab his ass.

Patrick moans into Jonny's mouth and rolls on top of Jonny to straddle his lap. He goes to pull down Jonny's sleeping pants, when Jonny spasms suddenly and grabs Patrick's wrists, yanks them away from his body.

Patrick yelps and tumbles off of him, falling onto his side on the mattress. He lifts his head from his pillow, his semi deflating fast, until he sees Jonny's face. He's got that nervous look in his eyes again, and it makes Patrick sit up.

“Hey, what's wrong?” He slowly reaches out to hold Johnny's hand. “I thought you were enjoying it?” 

Jonny swallows with a _click_ and pushes himself into a sitting position. “I…”  

He's struggling with his words, and for a split second, Pat's worried he's going to have a panic attack. He settles in next to Jonny's side and squeezes his hand tight. 

“You haven't seen me naked since the accident.” Jonny doesn't meet his eyes.

It takes a few run-throughs in his mind for him to piece it together.  They haven't had any kind of sex since Jonny returned. Now he's gone and got it in his dumb brain that he won't find him attractive now that he's missing a leg.

Patrick stares at him for a moment, mouth parting and closing like a fish. Finally, he takes Jonny's other hand and brings it to his lips to kiss his knuckles. Jonny watches him, petrified.

“If you think,” Pat says, “that your disability makes you any less attractive than before, you're sorely mistaken.” 

Jonny's eyes fall into his lap. He's trembling. Patrick lifts Jonny's chin to meet his eyes. “I have gone fourteen months without touching you, without you touching me. The fact that you have a bum leg doesn't make me want you any less.”

Jonny finally meets his eyes. They're misty, pupils wide with a vulnerability that's different from when Jonny first learned his leg was gone. This was different. The fear that the man he loved didn't want him.

Patrick felt his own eyes get watery. “Please don't ever think I don't want you. _I want you._ Everything you have,” he rests his hand on the stub of Jonny's left leg, “and everything you don't.” 

A tear slips from Jonny's eye and slides down his cheek. Patrick wipes it away, leans forward to kiss his nose. “We don't have to do anything right now. But just know that I'll be here whenever you're ready, and that I love you.”

Jonny nods, hiccups his way to calmness, and holds onto Patrick, as if letting him go will result in losing him forever. 

To Jonny, it might.

——— 

Patrick brings it up at dinner that night.

“So listen,” he says while Jonny's chewing his bite of sausage, “I made you an appointment for a therapist.” 

Jonathan pauses, brings his fork down to his plate. “What?” 

“Dr. Terry mentioned that he wanted someone to assess for any PTSD, or other stuff. I figured it's better now than to wait.”

Jonny glares at him, and his fingers tighten on the fork. “I don't have PTSD.” 

“You never know,” Pat shrugs, “and besides, you've been having nightmares ever since you came back. Frequent, too. Even if you don't have PTSD, maybe a therapist can help.”

“I don't need _help,”_ his husband snaps, “and I certainly don't need you making decisions for me. Just because my leg is gone doesn't mean I suddenly can't take care of myself!”

“I never said you couldn't!” Patrick shouts, feeling his chest heave with his sudden annoyance. “I said it could _help_ you. For fucks sake, stop making it sound like I'm taking away your independence.”

“I'm in a damn wheelchair, Patrick!” Jon roars, “What's left for you to take?” 

He shoves at the table angrily and grabs the wheels of his wheelchair, rolls out of the kitchen angrily. Patrick throws his fork at his plate. Something shatters, but he doesn't know if it's the plate or his heart. 

——— 

It's a battle, but Patrick gets Jonny to go to the session. He had to threaten bringing one to the house, which had Jonny giving in.

It's a silent car ride, and a silent wait at the office. They still don't speak as they go back to the therapist's room, but as they sit down, Patrick reaches over and takes Jonny's hand. Jonny's still angry, but he squeezes back, seeking comfort. 

Patrick looks over. Jonny's scared. 

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the therapist greets, a middle-aged woman with black hair and matching glasses, “My name is Dr. Chelsea Wurman. Now, you are Jonathan, and you are Patrick, correct?”

Jonny refuses to acknowledge her, so Patrick takes over responses. “Yes.” 

“Good. Alright, so this says you've been married for about three years. Jonathan, you enlisted into the military right after high school. You seem very fond of your job.”

Jon snorts, “Yeah, I was.”

“Was?”

“I went to Afghanistan to help civilians, and my leg got blown off. So yeah, was.”

Dr. Wurman writes something on her notepad, and Jonny's jaw clenches angrily. “I'm fine.”

Dr. Wurman looks up at him, “That's good. Being fine keeps you strong.”

Jonny nods in agreement, jaw still clenched.

“Patrick, I'm sure you're happy to have your husband back.” She turns her attention to the blond, who nods. 

“Yeah. It's been nice. Minus the nightmares he's been having.”

Dr. Wurman scribbles something down. “And that's why you're here, because of the nightmares.”

Patrick nods. “He's come close to panic attacks… it's starting to scare me.”

Jonny turns to face him, face filled with surprise and hurt. “I'm scaring you?”

“Not _you._ But whatever's going on up here?” He lightly taps Jonny's head, “That is.”

Jonny stares down at the blanket in his lap. He drops Pat's hand, and Patrick immediately reaches for him. “Jonny, hold on-”

“No, this is good.” Dr. Wurman says, “Jonathan? What are you thinking?”

Jon shrugs, pauses, then shrugs again. “I'm fine, honest.”

Neither believe him.

Dr. Wurman asks basic questions after that, and Jonny's responses are short and clipped. She tells them to come back next week for a private session for Jon, then let's them go.

Jonny still won't talk to him on the drive home, until they walk into the room. Patrick goes for the kitchen, but Jonny grabs his arm to stop him.

“Come lay with me?” 

Patrick smiles, soft, and helps Jonny to the bedroom. They fall into the bed and cuddle up together, taking comfort in each other's warmth. 

“I'm sorry.” Jonny whispers, brushing his fingers across Patrick's delicate features. He has never seen war, or death. He is innocent. Jonny wants to protect him fiercely. 

“Don't be.” Patrick whispers. “I'm sorry I forced you to talk about it.”

Jonny shrugs. “Maybe it's not so bad.”

“That's my boy.” Pat leans over and takes Jonny's face in his hands, presses their lips together. “I love you.” 

Jonny smiles dopily. “I love you, too.” 

They lay together for a bit, before Jonny asks, “Will you paint my nails?”

Patrick blinks his eyes open. “You want me to what?” 

“Paint my nails.” Jonny says, “Uh, please.” 

“Any particular reason?” 

Jonny shrugs. “Some of the guys in my platoon are doing it for the boys that died. Black, with a blue ring finger.” 

Patrick nods and sits up. “Yeah, no problem. Now? I can run to the drug store down the street.”

Something clouds over Jonny's eyes. They go lifeless and sharp, and there's a hint of panic in his facial features. He throws his had out and grabs Patrick by the wrist. “No. I'll go with you.” 

Patrick frowns. “Are you sure? You've been in and out of the wheelchair so much already today-”

“I said I'm _going.”_ Jon hisses, and Patrick holds his face again

“Baby, breathe.”

The lifelessness drains from his eyes little by little the longer he stares at Patrick, until nothing but pure fear is showing in them.

Patrick feels his own fear seep into him. “Jonny?”

“You can't go alone.” He croaks, “They could come. They could get you—” 

And this, this is what Patrick was worried about.

“Jonny,” he says, soft and gentle, lowering himself to meet his husband's eyes, “No one is coming. You're home now. Nothing can get us here.”

Jonny's eyes are fearful. “But what if-”

“No,” Patrick interrupts, “We are _safe,_ do you hear me? Safe.”

“Safe.” Jonny repeats.

“Mhm. Safe. You are safe. I am safe. We're safe.”

“Safe,” says Jonny, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Pat agrees, “Now, I'm going to run to the drug store and pick up some nail polish. I will be right back. If it helps, text me if you get worried. Unless I'm driving, I'll respond.”

Jonny grabs his phone off the bedside table and clutches it tightly. “Okay. I'll text you in five minutes.”

“Five minutes.” Patrick kisses his forehead. “I'll see you soon.”

Patrick heads to the nearest Walgreens, and right at five minutes since he left, Jonny texts him, _copy?_  

 _I copy,_ Patrick replies, and grabs the bottles of nail polish off the shelf. He takes a container of quick-drying spray, too. 

Jonny's waiting at the door when he gets back. Patrick kisses him hello, and any panic in Jonny's eyes has disappeared. He looks like his old self again, and that's how Patrick knows for sure that Jonathan has PTSD.

He takes Jon to their bedroom, where Jon feels the safest, and helps him out of the wheelchair and into the bed. They turn on Get Smart on Netflix, and Patrick uncaps the bottle, takes Jonny's left hand and gets to work. 

He's methodic. He painted his sisters’ nails all the time growing up, so he was a pro at this. He sprays the quick-drying spray over the nails, holds them for an extra minute, and kisses Jonny's fingertips. “Voila.”

Jonny chuckles at him and takes the polish. “Let me do yours?” 

Patrick agrees and thrusts his hands out to Jonny. “Make me pretty.”

“You're already pretty.” Jonny winks at him flirtatiously and sends Patrick sputtering into laughter.

It's easier now.

———

Patrick works with Ms. Kessel and Dr. Wurman to schedule meetings for Jonny. Every Tuesday afternoon becomes reserved for Dr. Wurman, and every Monday and Friday afternoons are for physical therapy.

It takes one visit with Dr. Wurman for her to diagnose Jonny with PTSD. Patrick was already aware, but Jonny hadn't wanted to believe him. 

Dr. Wurman brings Patrick into the room once she's done talking with Jonny. She sits them down and explains to them, very carefully, that Jonny is, in fact, suffering from PTSD, and she's requiring him to meet with her once every week.

Beside him, Jonny's hands clench his blanket until his fingers turn a sickening yellowish white color. 

It's only upon further observation that he notices Jonny trembling. His jaw is clenched, and the distal phalanges in his fingers look a hair away from snapping under the pressure. He's trying to breathe steady through his nose, but it's increasingly getting more and more rapid.

“He's having a panic attack,” Dr. Wurman says calmly, like she didn't just drop that bomb on him, “Jonathan? I need you to breathe for me. Out through your mouth.”

Jonny doesn't move. Fear twists in Patrick's chest, and he reaches out for him, but Jonny flinches and jolts away. Patrick recoils like he's been burned. 

“Jon,” he says, “Jon, babe, I'm right here.”

Jonny's face is going pale in little increments. He's holding his breath.

“You're safe.” Pat tries, "Are you listening? You're safe. They can't get you.”

Jonny inhales sharply, and Patrick breathes a sigh of relief. Dr. Wurman snaps her fingers. “Jonathan, I need you to focus on the snapping. Count them.” 

She snaps a second time, and Jonny doesn't move, but when she snaps again Jonny whispers, “Three.”

Patrick slouches in his seat as he listens to Jonny say, “Four,” “Five,” and “Six.” He sees Jonny finally move, a minute shift as his eyes break away from where they were glued to the wall. He's still shaking, and it's worsening now that he's aware of what happened, and his arms shoot out to grab onto something.

Pat's there in an instant. Jonny yanks his husband as close as he can with the wheelchair in their way. Patrick holds him as he calms down, cradles his head where it's stuffed into his neck. 

“That was a panic attack?” Patrick asks. 

Dr. Wurman nods. “Panic attacks and anxiety attacks aren't always crying and hyperventilating. They can be, but they can also be things such as nitpickiness, increased paranoia, things like holding your breath or seizing of muscles, and any combination of those things.”

Patrick holds Jonny protectively and prays that things get better.

——— 

They're taking small steps, but they're steps nonetheless.

Jonny starts to get used to his prosthetic. It takes a lot of effort, considering Jonny only has a sixth of his leg, but they're getting somewhere.

Jonny can get out of his wheelchair with his prosthetic on pretty easily now. Walking is still a little tricky, and they haven't started running or working out yet. But it's farther than the start and Patrick clings to the hope that maybe Jonny won't lose total feeling in his leg after all.

Jonny starts warming up to things, initiating kitchen makeout sessions, or grinding into Patrick's hand when he presses it up against his cock. Jonny even jerks him off before they fall asleep one night, slow and leisurely, drawing out the feeling while Patrick moans breathlessly into his mouth.

Things start looking better, until one afternoon while Pat’s making them chicken salad for lunch. Jonny’s asleep on the couch in the living room, taking a nap where he fell asleep watching golf.

It’s quiet in the house, so it startles him when he hears Jonny suddenly cry out, _“Patrick!”_

Patrick drops the bowls in his hands and takes off down the hall to the couch in the living room. _“Jonny!”_

Jonny’s awake, breathing erratic and scrambling to sit up.

“Jonny, what's wrong? What's wrong?” Patrick panics and grabs him.

“My- my l-"

Jonny's skin is white as a sheet. He starts choking out pained syllables and sounds, trying to grab ahold of a leg that is no longer there. “It hurts!”

“What hurts? Baby, what hurts?”

“My leg!” He yells, grabbing the prosthetic. “Make it stop!”

Patrick works with Jonny to take off the prosthetic, but even once it's removed, Jonny's still whimpering. Pat can’t tell if it’s from pain or from panicking, but neither are good with his condition.

Patrick calls Dr. Wurman.

“Please help!” He begs, “Jonny thinks his left leg hurts. His _left leg._ Oh my God, he's freaking out-“ 

“ _Patrick, slow down,”_ Dr. Wurman says, _“You need to stay calm to keep Jonathan calm. It sounds like PLP — phantom limb pain.”_

Patrick cradles Jonny close, rocking him as he squirms and gasps into Pat's shoulder. “What do I do?”

_“It's a response from mixed signals from his brain and spinal cord. Just keep him calm. Remind him that his leg is gone. Call me back when the pain stops.”_

She hangs up, and Patrick has no idea what to do. He gathers Jonny even tighter in his arms. “Okay, uh, it- it's in your head, baby. Your leg- it's not there. It's gonna be okay.”

Jonny starts sobbing at the reminder of his missing leg. Patrick blanches. “Shit, I'm sorry. That didn’t help. Please calm down. I'm so sorry. I-" 

Patrick snaps his mouth shut, because he's only making it worse. He lets Jonny cry, keeps his mouth closed and rocks him back and forth, praying for his pain to end.

Patrick loses track of how long they're lying there for, but eventually, Jonny calms. Patrick presses his cheek against Jonny's. “Is it gone?”

It takes a moment, but Jonny nods. Patrick calls back Dr. Wurman right away.

 _“Usually, PLP comes soon after the amputation. I'm surprised it took this long.”_ She tells him. _“I’m also a little surprised it didn’t last longer. It can last for a few minutes, but sometimes it can go for days.”_

Patrick doesn’t know what to say, too busy clinging to Jonny’s shaking body. “I…”

_“Jonathan probably wasn’t experiencing actual, harsh pain. It’s usually a tingling sensation or phantom feeling where the limb used to be. It probably scared him more than anything. The PTSD more than likely started acting up, as well, and made the situation worse.”_

“What do we do?” He asks, desperate, “What am I supposed to do?”

_“There's medication to help, but I want to wait to see if it happens again before I prescribe anything. For now, just monitor him, and call me if it happens again. I'll see you Tuesday.”_

Jonny tires himself out and falls asleep again, knocking out against Pat's chest and his shoulder. Patrick doesn't move from his spot until Jonny wakes again.

——— 

The PLP stays away, and Jonny goes for another physical therapy session.

“He’s improving.” Amanda tells Patrick while Jonny takes a break and starts lifting weights.

“So you think, uh- there’s a chance he won’t lose feeling in his legs, then,” Patrick asks, gnawing at his pinky nail, “Right?” 

“There’s a chance, yes,” Amanda says, “But there’s still a lot of work to do before I know for sure.”

“He’s been walking pretty okay,” Patrick continues, “He stumbles sometimes, and he has to hold onto something most of the time, but it’s getting easier it looks like. That’s good?”

Amanda nods, though she seems hesitant. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. He’s doing fantastic, but sometimes, physical therapy can only do so much. I’m not his therapist, but I think some of it might be psychological.”

Patrick furrows his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

They keep an eye on Jonny for a bit before she answers, watching as he sets down the weight, puts his hands on the edges of the seat to get up, before letting go and going back to the weights.

“That’s what I mean,” she tells him, “I think he’s capable of getting back out there, going back to the military and living like nothing happened. But he just looks like he’s too scared, or he hesitates and then fails. Even the strongest soldier has some mental setbacks.” 

Patrick nods, and the frown on his face disappears as Jonny forces himself to his feet, then hobbles over to them with the cane they’ve been using this session. Pat’s arms shoot out to grab him, steadying the shaking figure until he lifts his head and smiling at Patrick.

Patrick smiles back despite feeling like his gut was being ripped out. “Hey babe.” He kisses Jonny’s lips softly. 

“Jonathan, do you want to continue with the bike?” Amanda asks, retying her ponytail.

Jonny’s face flickers with uncertainty. Patrick squeezes his arms reassuringly. “You can do it. You got really far last time!”

Jonny shakes his head, “I don’t know.”

“We can stop for today.” Amanda says, and Patrick feels his heart deflate, “Keep doing your stretches. I’ll see you guys later.”

Patrick’s silent on the ride home, and it’s halfway through their trip when Jonny realizes it. “Pat?”

Patrick clenches his jaw and keeps quiet.

He helps Jonny inside the house, because he’s not an asshole, but he slams the door shut behind him and stalks into the kitchen to find a bottle of water. Or maybe a beer.

“Pat?” Jonny asks again, limping in after him. “What’s wrong? What did I- did I do something?” 

Patrick squeezes the neck of the beer bottle and uses his forearm to twist off the cap. “No. It’s what you’re not doing.” 

Jonny looks helpless, confused as to what he’s done to hurt his husband, and Patrick wants so badly to be angry, but he feels it seeping out of him the longer Jonny beats himself up inside to figure out what he’d done.

Patrick can’t hold back anymore. “I know you’re scared. I know you think that you’re gonna mess up, or you won’t be able to do something- but damn it, Jonny, that’s gonna come with physical therapy for an _amputee.”_

Jonny flinches and opens his mouth, but Patrick isn’t done. “I know it’s killing you inside that things aren’t coming easy. I know you’re scared. But- but I’m scared too, okay? I’m fucking _petrified.”_

Jonny watches him, face going hard. “Why are _you_ scared? You’re not the one with a missing leg.”

“Because I love you!” Patrick can feel his eyes sting with tears, “And it hurts to see you hurt; I hate seeing you in so much pain. You scared the shit out of me at the funeral, and it hasn’t gone away. I’m constantly worrying, constantly double tasking doing whatever I’m doing with listening for you, watching, making sure you don’t faceplant into the floor and die because you won’t fucking go out of your comfort zone during therapy.”

Jonny glares at him in offense. “Well I’m sorry if this whole thing has me freaking the fuck out.”

“Maybe that’s because you won’t talk to Dr. Wurman.” Patrick snaps, “You barely spoke two sentences and she caught the PTSD. _I_ caught the PTSD. But you refuse to get help.” 

“Ever stop to think that I don’t want help?” 

 _“Yes,”_ Patrick shouts, “and that’s exactly the reason why you’re not doing better in physical therapy! Because you’re too scared!”

“I’m not scared!” Jonny yells and slams his hands onto the counter. 

Patrick shakes his head and wipes away the tears gathering on his bottom eyelashes. “I’m not losing you because you won’t fucking get help like a mature adult. I get that you’re scared, Jonny, but I am too. How do you think it feels to wake up every other night to your nightmares? I sleep like shit trying to keep an ear out for you! Because _I’m scared,_ Jonny. You’re not the only one!”

He’s heaving now, trying to calm his rapid heartbeat before it gives under the stress.

Jonny looks pissed. Patrick can’t do this right now.

“I’m gonna call Sharpy,” he says, sniffling, “Maybe he and Abby can knock some sense into you.” 

He fled the room. He feels irresponsible leaving Jonny alone, feels like he’s an awful person and that Jonny could slip and fall to his death, and the thinks that there’s probably a problem with his anxiety levels there. 

But a part of him wants to shove it in Jonny’s stupid, stubborn face and say, “You wanted independence, so have it,” and leave him to do shit on his own. 

Sharpy gets there pretty quick after Patrick calls him. Abby’s with him, but she leaves to find Jonny, so Patrick’s free to lock himself in the bedroom with Sharpy and cry.

“Tazer’s going through a lot,” Sharpy says, sitting in front of him on the bed, “He doesn’t know what to do with himself anymore. He’s been relying on you to be his rock.”

“I know.” Patrick sniffs sadly, “But it’s not fair.”

“No, it isn’t,” Sharpy agrees, “You guys just need to talk it out. Maybe get a marriage counselor.” 

Patrick groans into his hands. “God. First a physical therapist, then a psychiatrist, and now a marriage counselor? No wonder he’s going insane.”

He slaps a hand over his mouth in horror. “He’s not insane! That’s not what I meant! I just mean-”

“I know what you meant, Peeks,” Sharpy reaches out and rubs his arm, “But you and Tazer just need to sit down and talk it all out. You’re both going through some shit. He needs to realize that he’s not the only one suffering, and that you’ve both got problems.”

“I know,” Pat whimpers again, wipes his nose with the back of his hand, “But what kind of husband am I if I make him deal with my problems when he’s the one who lost a piece of his _body?”_  

Sharpy reaches out and squeezes his hand. “A human one.”

———

They walk downstairs to find Jonny and Abby curled up on the couch, mugs in hands while they watch a Christmas movie. 

Patrick’s lips part in surprise. He completely forgot it was almost Christmas.

Abby smiles at them when they enter, and her movements catch Jonny’s attention. His eyes land on Patrick, and they’re filled with guilt and nervousness.

Patrick has always been able to tell what he’s thinking just by looking at his eyes, and today is no different.

“We should get going.” Abby days and sets her mug on the coffee table. “Come to dinner Saturday? The girls miss you.” 

Jonny can’t help the smile at the mention of the Sharp girls. “Sounds good—?”

He turns to Patrick, who confirms it with a nod, “Saturday at six.”

Sharpy takes Abby’s hand and leaves their house, the door shutting with a _click_ that echoes through the suddenly silent, tense-filled room.

“Can we talk?” 

Patrick sits on the couch next to Jonny as his answer. He looks at the television. _“How the Grinch Stole Christmas,_ huh?”

Jonny’s got a sheepish look on his face. “I remember when we were dating, how every Christmas Eve, you would sneak out of your dorm and come to the base so that we could watch it.”

“It’s how the tradition started,” Patrick recalls with a puff of breath, picking at his nails — a habit Jonny was never able to break him from, “Things were a lot simpler back then.”

Jonny nods. “Before I went to war.”

Patrick’s head lifts immediately, “Jonny, that’s not what I meant-” 

“No, but it’s what I mean,” he says, resituating his legs so his prosthetic sat comfortably against the couch, “Before I was deployed, everything was easy. It was you and me. Kaner and Tazer.”

He snorts fondly at the memory, “Everyone expected us to marry, and no one was surprised when we did. Even though we spent hours screaming at each other-” 

“We always made it work,” interrupts Patrick, “I remember.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jonny says, staring into the shimmery blue of Pat’s eyes, “I didn’t take your feelings into consideration. I’ve been selfish. A soldier can’t be selfish. It will cost him.”

Pat frowns. “You don’t have to be a soldier all the time. You can just be my Jonathan.” 

Jonny’s eyes shine with tears, filled with every emotion he’s carried inside him since the explosion, and every piece of guilt he felt after their fight.  “I know it’s hard on you. Of course I know. I can’t imagine what all of this put you through. I just…”

Patrick waits him out, but realizes that Jonny doesn’t have anything else to say.

“I don’t know.”

Patrick’s lip quivers upwards into a little, shy smirk. “You’re an asshole,” he tells him, “but I’ve known this since the day I met you. If I couldn’t handle it, I would have dropped your ass years ago.” 

“You love my ass.” Jonny retorts, because he thinks he’s _funny._

“I do.” Patrick agrees. “And I also love you, you complete douchebag.”

Jonny finally breaks to a smile, tension flowing out of his shoulders. “I love you, too. Forgive me?” 

Patrick leans forward and kisses Jonny’s lips sweetly, then punches his shoulder. “I do, just don’t do that again.”

“Deal.” Jonny sighs into his mouth.

As much as Pat would love to have awesome make-up sex, he’s got one more thing he needs to talk about. He pulls back, takes Jonny’s hands in his own, and tells him the truth.

“Amanda was worried that you’d lose feeling in both of your legs without constant therapy. That’s why we meet up with her so often.”

Jonny’s face gets all vulnerable again, but Patrick keeps talking before he interrupts. “She thinks that you can pass physical therapy if you get past this whole ‘being too scared to try’ thing. You wanna tell me what that’s all about?”

There’s a few beats of silence while he waits. When Jonny opens his mouth again, it’s to say, “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

 _“Disappoint_ me?”

“Yes, disappoint you. You’re so- you’re always so _proud_ of me. You have so much faith, always cheering me on and encouraging me.” Jonny tells him, quiet and unsure, “Only being able to go ten miles an hour on the exercise bike doesn’t feel like much of an accomplishment.”

Patrick can hear his heart break at the words. Jonny’s been mentally struggling this whole time. He was aware of it, but he never thought it would be because Jonny was scared to upset him.

“You’d never disappoint me,” he tells Jonny earnestly, “Yeah, I might be disheartened with progress sometimes, but that’s because I feel bad for you. You want so much for things to go back to the way they were, and that can’t happen if you don’t make progress. We argue, and yeah, sometimes I get upset from it, but I’m never, ever disappointed in you, Jonny. You could completely give up and live in a wheelchair for the rest of your life, and I _still_ wouldn’t be disappointed, because after everything you’ve been through — and it’s a lot — you deserve to say when you’re done.”

There’s a tear sliding down Jonny’s cheek, and then another comes, drips down and catches on his chin. Patrick wipes them away, and he starts crying too.

“Look at me,” he says, and tilts Jonny’s chin up, “Jonathan Toews has never given up before; don’t start now.”

Jonny tucks his face into Pat’s neck and holds onto him for dear life.

———

Jonny gets better, and stays better.

He starts pushing himself during physical therapy, going faster and harder until he can’t anymore. He goes on the bike, starts squatting more. He doesn’t show up to the building scared anymore.

He starts talking more during sessions with Dr. Wurman. He’s shy at the start, worried about how Patrick will think of him as he talks about how scared he had been, how he thought he was going to die. He tells her about what he was thinking at the funeral, and he cries when he admits to himself that there were a few times when he didn’t realize that it was Patrick in front of him, and his instinct was to punch him — even though he never did. 

Christmas comes quickly. Neither do much, but both their parents fly in to take care of them. The boys are happy to sit back and let themselves be doted on for the next week.

After another two months, Jonny passes physical therapy.

“You did it,” Patrick beams, happiness shining on his face, “Baby, you did it!” 

Jonny puffs his chest out in pride.

They’re sitting down for dinner that night, when Jonny tells him, “I think I’m going to be discharged.”

Patrick’s teeth scrape against his fork in surprise, winces at the sound it makes. He sets it down against his plate and swallows his bite. “Why would you think that? You passed therapy. They’ll let you back in.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Jonny shakes his head, “I mean that I don’t think I want to back. I’m thinking of getting discharged.” 

Patrick’s eyes widen in surprise. “What? Why? You wanted to go back.”

Jonny shrugs, “I just don’t think I can. After all that’s happened, I don’t know if I can handle it.” He smiles, then, “Besides, I missed you like crazy when I was deployed. I don’t think I can go another fourteen months without seeing you.”

Patrick’s heart flutters at the words. “Yeah?”

Jonny reaches over and cups his hand over Pat’s. “Yeah.” 

They finish dinner in a comfortable silence, ankles twined together under the table. Patrick feels like he did when they first started dating: some blushing teenager playing footsie with a hot army soldier.

They wash the dishes together, pressed close against each other’s sides. Jonny starts a war when he hip bumps Pat, who bumps him back. It turns into a battle pretty quickly, and ends with Patrick pinned against the fridge, handle digging uncomfortably into his back.

But Jonny’s up close against him, big hands squeezing his wrists, leaning in to kiss him until his legs go wobbly. 

“I’ve missed this.” Patrick breathes, and when Jonny lets go of his wrists, he throws them around his neck and tugs him in closer, pressing a hot kiss onto his lips.

Jonny’s hands move down and down and _down,_ cupping the bottom of Pat’s cheeks and squeezing, then moves upwards to settle at the base of his spine, right above the curve of his ass.

“Fuck me?” Pat asks.

Jonny’s only human.

By the time they get to the bedroom, Jonny’s shirt is gone and Patrick’s struggling to get out of his pants. Jonny stops him with a hand over his own, uses his fingers to push them aside and deftly pop open the button and slide down the zipper. 

The pads of his fingers methodically brush over the bulge in Patrick’s pants, which only makes things hotter. Patrick stumbles out of his pants and yanks off his shirt because he _needs_ this. He hasn’t had Jonny’s cock in him for over a year.

He settles against the pillows, and the frantic need calms when he sees Jonny hesitating, fingers hovering over his waistband and the open fly. Patrick reaches out for him, so Jonny takes a deep breath and shoves his pants down.

He’s careful removing them over the prosthetic, then his boxers go with it.

And then Jonny’s naked, skin gloriously bronze even in the little light he’s gotten, muscles hard and rippling, a few scars from battle, all the way down to his cock standing to attention, then even lower where skin meets metal.

He’s breathtaking.

“Come _here,”_ Patrick orders, “Come here and _fuck me.”_

Something snaps into place in Jonny’s eyes. He gets onto the bed and in between Patrick’s legs, kisses him deep. 

Jonny takes his time prepping him. He always loved getting Pat squirming on his fingers, desperate for something more, something _better,_ the anticipation of knowing he’s going to get nailed into the mattress by a man who knows how to fuck within an inch of his life.

It’s been a while, a good while, so it feels weird when Jonny inserts the first finger. Pat doesn’t start twinging at the pain until the second one, breathing in deep and holding onto Jonny’s big shoulders.

“I’ve missed you like this,” Jonny admits, voice thick in his throat, “I missed seeing you like this.”

Patrick breathes out, doesn’t say anything because he knows that if he does, he’ll start crying. _Everyday,_ he wants to say, _I thought about you every day. Cried for you every day. Got myself off wishing you could be here._

Jonny gives him a third finger, fanning them and stretching him out. Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and pulls Jonny in closer, not wanting to let go. The pads of his fingers rub against his prostate, and he mewls, nails pressing into Jonny’s skin.

“I’ve got you,” Jonny whispers, “Always got you.”

Jonny keeps him riding the abuse on his prostate, staggering between purposefully missing to give him time to recuperate and a full-out assault. Pat’s shaking, the muscles in his legs quivering beneath Jonny’s lips as he kisses there, rubs his stubble against the inside of Pat’s thighs and licks over the burn. 

When Jonny finally lines himself up, Patrick spreads his legs wide and holds Jonny pressed chest to chest, feeling the stretch and the sting of pain as he’s filled. Jonny goes slow, face slack in pleasure of the feeling of Pat tight around him.

“Oh God.” He whispers. Patrick feels gutted.

They stay still for a bit while Patrick adjusts. He gives a little shimmy of his hips to test the waters, tells Jonny, “You can move.”

Jonny pulls out a couple inches, then slowly pushes back in. He repeats the motions a few times, getting Pat used to the feeling again.

“Do you remember our wedding night?” Jonny asks suddenly on a push back in.

Patrick’s lips part in bliss, and he nods, gulping. “Yeah.” 

He remembers that night so clearly, as if it were yesterday. The desperate feeling of needing to get out of his tux as soon as possible, to strip Jonny of his military uniform because he looked too damn good all day.

Jonny had teased him all night, when most of the families and younger kids had left and the only ones at the reception were their friends and Jonny’s team.

“You were so hot in your uniform,” he gasps when Jonny thrusts in harder, “God, wanted to tear it off the moment I saw you.”

“Finally got to.” Jonny smirks, voice tight in his chest as he pushes in and out, laughing breathlessly when he hits Patrick’s prostate and he yelps. “Bent you over the end of the bed and fucked you till you couldn’t stand.” 

“You should do it again.” Patrick says on a breath. 

Jonny bites at his jaw. “Soon. For now, I’m gonna take my time with you.”

Patrick tucks his face into Jonny’s neck, mouths at his skin. He smells really good, always of his expensive cologne that makes Pat want to eat him up.

He moans at the thought of eating Jonny out. It’s been _so long_ since he’s done it. He’s got stubble now, too, which will leave a pretty pink burn on the insides of his thighs.

It pushes Pat closer to the edge, and he wants to make this last, so he shuts those thoughts down and focuses on Jonny. Jonny, who’s jackrabbiting his hips, dick pressing against all the right places inside him, whose muscles are rippling and demeanor giving off that Big Dick Energy that Patrick can’t get enough of.

Jonny grabs Pat’s dick, fists it in time with his thrusts. Pat tosses his head back with a loud moan. 

“Uhn,” groans Patrick, blinking at the ceiling, “Oh.”

Jonny‘s mouth parts when Patrick clenches down on him. “Forgot how good you feel. _Shit.”_

It’s an overwhelming feeling, having Jonny this close after so long, after everything they’ve been through. It’s hot and hard and the air is heavy around them, suffocatingly intimate and weighing heavy against their chests.

“I love you.” Jonny whispers, and Patrick leans up to kiss away the tear dripping from his eye.

“I love you, too.”

There’s a tightening in his abdomen, a coiling heat that has him panting, saying, “I’m close, baby.”

“Look at me,” Jonny begs, “Keep your eyes on me.”

Patrick comes between them with a muted cry, eyes locked on Jonny’s as he paints his abdomen in thick ropes of white. Jonny moans like he’s been suckerpunched, and thrusts in hurriedly while Pat’s still locked tight around him.

Patrick cradles Jonny’s head, hands sinking into his hair — longer now since he’s been off duty — caressing as he finally topples over the edge with a sharp grunt, spilling hot inside Patrick.

They lay there, taking a moment to breathe. The suffocating feeling is still there, even after Patrick’s come, but maybe that’s just because it’s _Jonny._

There’s always a suffocating feeling when Jonny’s with him. Maybe it’s his hotness — because, you know, _hot damn;_ maybe it’s his smile, the one that he’s missed so much and is finally returning; maybe it’s the way he fills up the room with his big shoulders and loud, monotone voice.

Maybe it’s the kind of calming feature that Jonny emits, the one where someone could be having a terrible, anxiety-filled day, and Jonny could just walk into the room and it’s just like _oh._ Jonny’s here. Jonny’s here so everything is okay now, because Jonny’s here.

Patrick doesn't feel Jonny pull out, but he does feel when he plops down beside him and tugs the covers over them. Patrick lifts his hand not embedded in Jonny’s hair and clings to his back, holding him impossibly closer. The metal of the prosthetic is cool against his burning skin. 

“I love you,” says Patrick.

“I love you, too,” says Jonny. 

It’s easy.

———

_“Pick up your will and put on your face. If you need to, just take my hand. It's time to demonstrate, don't hesitate. Just get up and say ‘Yes, I can’. Stand, up again. Come on, stand. Stand, you're gonna run again.” - Lenny Kravitz_

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not an expert when it comes to amputations, so I did a lot of research, but if there’s anything incorrect or misinterpreted, please let me know so I can fix it.
> 
> Thank you guys for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
